


Three Times Sherlock Didn't Miss John And One Time He Did

by EyesInstarred



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cancer, M/M, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyesInstarred/pseuds/EyesInstarred





	Three Times Sherlock Didn't Miss John And One Time He Did

1  
“John! How long does it take to find one of those bloody sweaters you’ve always got? They all look the same anyways.” Sherlock grumbled the last part under his breath. He could hear John fumbling around in the bedroom, no doubt making more noise than necessary just to piss Sherlock off. It was working.  
“They don’t all look the same and you know it.” The smugness in John’s voice covered Sherlock like a blanket and he actually shuddered to get the feeling off. The worst part was that John was right. There were some that looked like bags and others that looked like sacks. Sherlock snorted at his own wit. But there were also some that made John’s eyes look slightly brighter and some that hugged his body just right…  
Sherlock’s head snapped up as John appeared in the doorway as if he had heard Sherlock’s thoughts. The table shook when Sherlock’s knee bumped it as he stood up. A jar of various animal claws tipped precariously towards the edge, but he let it. By his calculations, the mass of the jar and the force of the table shaking combined were not quite enough to make the glass fall. John flinched as though he wanted to jump forward and get it, but he had learned better than that.  
“We better get going.” Sherlock’s rough voice surprised even him and he cleared his throat just to make sure that there was nothing there. John was already halfway out the door, but stopped just long enough for Sherlock to grabbed his scarf and coat before bounding down the stairs. “John, wait.” Once again, Sherlock’s voice surprised him. It was full of humour and almost-annoyance, but it was also tinged with longing. Thankfully, John didn’t catch that part, or at least Sherlock hoped he didn’t, but there was no missing the quick pause in John’s steps or the way he almost turned. Sherlock didn’t miss anything.  
2  
“…it was obviously a gun shot from far away that caused this.” Anderson was rambling on about something stupid as Sherlock did actual police work. The victim was sixteen years old and female. She had been walking down the street, made obvious from the rocks in the soles of her shoes, but the smears of blood under her body suggested that she had been dragged to the conspicuous spot in the middle of the sidewalk.  
“It wasn’t a gun shot.” Sherlock muttered after getting annoyed with yet another one of Anderson’s theories.  
“What was that, freak?” The last word was quiet, meant only for Sherlock. Anderson squatted down next to Sherlock and pointed to the splatters of blood on the wall behind the body. “Please, do enlighten me. I am curious to know how exactly boy wonder knows that this is not, in fact, a gunshot victim. Because all signs point to that.” Anderson shot him a smug look.  
“Well that would be a perfect plausible explanation if it weren’t you who came up with it.” Anderson’s face dropped. “That and if it weren’t for the fact that the ‘victim’ was dead when the wound and splatters were made. Because, you know, most gunshot victims aren’t dead when they’re shot. They have shooting ranges for target practice, which kind of defeats that purpose.” It was Sherlock’s turn to have a smug look.  
“How in the world could you possibly know that?” It was Donovan’s turn to doubt his extreme skills. He just sighed in response. It was so painfully obvious to him. How things ever got solved without him eluded his genius mind.  
“The splatter pattern shows more of a flick than an impact. Somebody was shaking blood off of their hand to purposefully get it on the wall. Judging from the smears under her body, I would guess that somewhere on her leg-” He felt around briefly, “- ah, yes here, there is a laceration from which the killer gathered the blood to plant around here.” The sad part was that he had gotten all of that within thirty seconds of looking at the body. “He shot the body then dragged it out here.”  
Donovan and Anderson shared a look. “Why would he go through all of that trouble?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. He had been so close to discover that before the idiots stepped in. Suddenly, it hit him.  
“He was trying to draw someone here. The girl wasn’t his target…” Sherlock trailed off as his look straight at where the barrel of a gun was pointed at him. “I was.” The gun shot was soft and quick and Sherlock had just enough time to move so that it wouldn’t hit him in the head.  
The officers on the scene took off after the shooter as Sherlock held his side tightly, trying to stanch the steady flow of blood. His last thought before he black out was I’m so glad John isn’t here to witness this.  
3  
Moriarty was at it again, and this time, he was aiming straight for the heart.  
Sherlock raced through the crowd, searching for the one face he needed to see. John. The name was pounding through his head. For the first time in his life, Sherlock realized that he cared. He really truly cared for John and instead of running on, the thought stopped him in his tracks. This was a problem.  
His entire life he saw caring as a weakness, something for people to lose. Once you cared for something, it was possible for it to be taken away. It made you vulnerable. It gave you a weak spot and John was his.  
In the instant that Moriarty told him John was in danger, all thoughts of anything else disappeared. The only thing that mattered was the laugh lines and the hair and the bright eyes and the grocery requests and the stupid sweaters and John. John was his weak spot.  
By chance or maybe fate, Sherlock was overwhelmed with a familiar scent and he was enclosed in a warm hug. It took him a second, but he hugged back. He pulled John close to him and ignored the lingering gazes and the judging stares. John was safe and he was here. There was no reason to worry because in that moment, Sherlock vowed that he would protect John with everything he had. John was his weak spot and maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing, because maybe, just maybe, Sherlock was John’s weak spot too.  
1  
It’s too late. The doctor’s words were tired and sorry. Sherlock’s world fell apart. The one thing he couldn’t protect John from. He tightened his grip on the weak hand in his and took a tight breath. It all started about six months ago. That’s when the bruises started.  
Sherlock had first noticed it one morning after a particularly… rough… night. John had just winked and told him to tone it down next time, but Sherlock wasn’t convinced. Then they started to show more and more. Soon, even a touch in the wrong way would leave a purple mark on John’s body. Sherlock stopped touching him.  
Next was the weight loss. It was like the bruises, slow at first then rapidly. Sherlock didn’t notice until he saw John in the mirror one day and could count his ribs. This was not normal. Something was wrong with his John and he was braking and John needed to be fixed. So they went to the doctor.  
Sherlock didn’t cry. Not when the doctor gave him a pity filled look. Not when John turned and cried into his shoulder. Not when the words left the doctor’s lips. Leukemia.John had cancer and he was on the express route to death. Not when John turned to him with a small smile and said, “The game is on.” No, Sherlock didn’t cry until he got home and John went to the store like everything was okay. He didn’t cry until he was all alone and then he let loose. They were ugly, loud, gasping sobs that wracked his body and they lasted until he could no longer breathe right. His weak spot, his one weak spot, was hurt and he couldn’t fix it, he couldn’t save John.  
The chemotherapy began soon after. John got violently ill the first time and spent hours in the toilet, hacking long after there was nothing left. As time went on, the nausea became more bearable. That was what was hardest for Sherlock, seeing John’s body get used to the pain.  
John was tired all of the time. The time he spent out of bed decreased and Sherlock began going on the grocery runs.  
He shaved his head. That’s what Sherlock told himself when he looked at John’s bald head to fight off the urge to cry.  
The aches began in John’s bad leg. They would keep him up at night sometimes and Sherlock would just lie there, listening to John’s sobs as he pretended to sleep. Those were the moments that he regretted the most. The ones where he could’ve held John and whispered how much he loved him and how he needed him to be okay because Batman was different without Robin and Sherlock was inhuman without John to bring him back.  
Now, Sherlock was sitting in an all too familiar bleach white room, holding John’s hand, listening to the beeping of too many machines.  
John moved to the hospital when Sherlock came home one day and found him on the ground. He wasn’t breathing.  
It was as if everything was muted. He could see the doctor’s lips moving, he could read them. He isn’t responding to treatment… three weeks at most.  
One week. That’s all John lasted. Sherlock was holding his hand when he stopped breathing. He was holding his hand when he reached over and pressed the call button, but he knew that John was gone. His weak spot.  
After that, Sherlock stopped caring again. He started wearing nicotine patches. He stared at John’s chair and remembered his laugh. He put his ugly sweaters in a box and almost cried when he caught a whiff of John. He remembered why caring was a bad thing.  
It made you miss them all the more when they were gone.


End file.
